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by knifewingo



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, unfinished (as yet)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifewingo/pseuds/knifewingo
Summary: IM SO SORRY THIS IS INCOMPLETE ITS BEEN SITTING ON MY LAPTOP FOR LIKE 6 MONTHS NOW AND. WELL.GUTS AND GRIFFITH SPAR AND FUCK. IT'S GUTS' FIRST TIME! I HAD THINGS PLANNED I SWEAR





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A golden summer - Guts couldn't remember the last one he’d enjoyed. His muscles ached sweetly, a deep burn, cooled with his sweat by a lazy breeze, drunk on the fading sun. It whispered through brittle leaves, their vibrancy petrified in the heat. Here in the shade though, long grass bowed, still dew damp, soothed his sculpted calves. His sandals hung from the bough of a knotted willow, drifting in the breeze with its windchime leaves. The grass wound between his toes, the dark earth staining his soles grounded him. He barely even felt the weight of his vast black blade, as delicate steel sang against it. 

Griffith’s feet whispered though the gilded grass as they circled each other. Smiled so softly, so slyly - the sharpness in his diamond eyes ran an icy razor along Guts’ spine. He locked his teeth to hide the shiver. The sun caught on Griffith’s cheekbones as it did on his blade and he hummed a note of pleasure. Guts rolled his strength to the balls of his feet, watched tension coil into Griffith’s honed muscles- that minute shift as he prepared to strike. The breeze rippled his silk shirt - the pale skin beneath barely glistened - and swept back - as messily as Griffith ever could be - played lightly with his hair. Still, Griffith remained immobile. As the world breathed around him, carried his scent. 

“Are you tired, Guts?” he breathed, one fine eyebrow arched. Guts’ teeth sharpened into a grin.

“One of these days, I’m gonna get you to shut your damn mouth,” he growled. Griffith’s eyes flashed with something he couldn't quite place.

“Is that a promise?”

_Sure_.

His movements as ever were lightning fast - Guts had never been accused of being slow, but Griffith - he moved with the Devil’s speed. It felt like years since they’d last sparred - and while there was still a playful spring to Griffith’s actions - fuck, that almost made it worse. Guts’ sword rang in his hands as he deflected Griffith’s slashes. Too fast for him. Even now. Guts could have memorised each of Griffith’s movements in advance and, he was certain, it wouldn't have been enough. 

He was overthinking it- he must have been - in a way he never did when he fought for real. But with Griffith; he was sure if he lapsed, even for a second, his friend would have taken his eye out just to prove a point. 

Guts probably wouldn’t even have been that mad about it. 

Their blades rang together like finest cut crystal. Griffith’s swipes came in a controlled flurry, as soft and thick as snowfall - and Guts could feel himself becoming blinded. Griffith whipped a maelstrom around him and didn’t even break a sweat. Guts’ eyes sharpened to his ploy but too late - the tip of his rapier found the clasp of his cape, and the heavy fabric slumped to the ground, swept over his shoulders like the breeze. 

_Shit_. Griffith pressed the point against Guts’ jugular - it danced on his taut, slick skin.

“Yield,” Griffith murmured. Guts swallowed, dropped his sword to the ground - raised his hands over his head with an exaggerated frown. 

“Uh huh.”

Griffith laughed softly, swept the blade from his throat without so much as a _snik_. 

“Good boy.” His cool thumb lifted a bead of sweat from Guts’ cheek

 

 

“I want you to fuck me, Guts,” Griffith purred - his breath sweet, soothing, cool and calm as his glacier gaze. “Wasn’t that entirely obvious?” 

Guts’ soft eyes widened slightly, one brow flexed - that look of utter innocent obliviousness with which he stumbled through every human interaction; that didn’t involve blades or blood, of course. A bloom of red coloured his sheer cheeks - beneath Griffith’s fingertips, his hot pulse began to quicken. In that split second, more sweat glistened on his brow than he’d ever shed in combat. 

“Wh-”

On the battlefield, he had all the patience in the world - but, no matter what - Griffith always got what he wanted. His pale fingers riveted Guts’ chisel jaw, caged him as he swept forward and with a murmur of impatience and heady content, pressed his lips to Guts’. The Raider Captain, forever iron, seized for a moment beneath those soft, full lips. But the intensity of Griffith’s kiss, his desires- it didn’t take long for the ore of Guts’ stoic heart to melt to magma. His huge hands shot to cradle Griffith’s head - not tenderly - but gently, delicately - like he didn’t trust himself not to break him. Griffith led, as ever - sighed hotly as he pressed his body against his, coaxed Guts’ lips apart. Guts tasted his tongue like the tip of a poisoned arrow, hesitant, cautious, until Griffith’s ease and wandering touch drew him deeper into the kiss. He was far from a good kisser - but, Griffith didn’t have to ask to know - it wasn’t like he’d had the practice. So messy he might have been covered in gore, but clumsy in a way he never handled his sword - Guts’ red hot brain had suddenly been quenched and Griffith could almost hear the gears in his sculpted skull hissing. Thick fingers wove into the fall of Griffith’s spidersilk hair, softer than finest velvet, would have run through it like water forever if Griffith hadn’t locked his own hands tightly into Guts’ ebony crop. As he did Guts stiffened, inhaled sharply, tensed Griffith’s body against his own with a low moan. His kiss was almost shockingly tender - his lips strangely soft, not silken like his own, and dry and cracked - but not harsh or coarse like his fingertips. As soothing and gently firm as the deep melodic resonance of his voice. He moulded to Griffith’s whim like fresh clay. Griffith gasped loudly for air, generously tuned the sound with a key of release - the catch in his throat sent a bristling shockwave over Guts’ spine. 

 

 

Guts’ thumb traced the curve of Griffith’s soft cheek - he smiled so sweetly - how many times had Guts done the very same, with the same glint in his eye, warmth and admiration and care, lifting away a spatter of gore from Griffith’s perfect face. Slowly, he examined those lips - the elegant curl of his cupid’s bow, the gleaming swell of his tender pink skin. Slender hands slid up his wrist, cool as sunset, and slipped the tip of his thumb into his mouth. Griffith’s tongue pulsed against it, teeth grazing its coarse pad. Guts’ lungs stalled, petrified around the sensation. And still Griffith smiled as he teased. Glacial, as ever. Elegant and unstoppable in his crushing desires. Griffith had never lost his head.

 

 

Griffith’s nails drove into his shoulder, spurring him like a knife in a horse’s side. With a grunt of surprise his teeth sunk into Griffith’s lower lip.

 

 

Beneath him, in his crushing arms, Griffith seemed so small. So fragile. Weak. Though he was none of those things. And never would be. Even as he buckled against his thighs and cried out softly, as if he was hurt - _ah, ah_ \- Guts still couldn’t see this. He leaned down - pressed a kiss that rapidly turned to a frenzied bite to Griffith’s sleek shoulder - felt the ridges of his spine against his belly. He moaned hotly - guided Guts’ hand from his hip to his near painfully rigid dick. 


End file.
